Manor of My Dreams
by AndThatWasEnough
Summary: {When one man, for whatever reason, has the opportunity to lead an extraordinary life, he has no right to keep it to himself.-Jacques Cousteau} When Sam was sixteen years old, he asks his father for a typewriter. Years later, he finally has one. Is yearning to tell his story. But where to begin? And who's to say anyone will care?


**Author's Note: Hi, all! I wrote this piece as a contest entry, and thought maybe you might all like to give it a read. It's what I've been working on the past week or so, so sorry for not updating SOTS recently! An update is coming. I promise. :)**

 **In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this. Spoilers for season 12, and the movies** ** _Rushmore_** **and** ** _Shakespeare in Love._**

 **Happy reading. :)**

When Sam was sixteen years old, he asked his father for a typewriter.

"A _typewriter?_ " His father had asked. "What the hell would you do with a _typewriter?_ "

"Write with it, of course."

John didn't look impressed. "Write _what?_ "

Sam shrugged. "I dunno. Papers for school." Stories. Poems. Plays. Manifestos. Angry songs about his gruff father and annoying older brother. "Other stuff."AN

His father harrumphed. _Other stuff._ Did people even really use typewriters anymore? It was all those new-fangled computers…what were they called? Macs, or whatever. Sometimes, John worried Sam was turning into one of those pretentious, poet-laureate types. The kind of guy that just asks to get his ass kicked. That wasn't something any of the Winchester boys could afford.

"Son," John began. "We can't be lugging around a typewriter. We need all the space in the truck and the Impala that we can get."

"But we've been _here_ a long time!" Sam keened, gesturing to the tiny apartment they were in at that very moment. "We can keep it in the apartment. At a desk or something."

"There is _one desk_ in this apartment, and I'm using it."

"Not when you're gone!"

"So you're just gonna move a typewriter on and off that desk as I come and go? Really? Sammy, what is it with this typewriter business? We have no practical use for it."

It was always 'we.' If the family Winchester as a whole had no use for something, then it wasn't going to happen. If it wasn't easily portable, then it wasn't going to happen, unless it was something John had picked up at an army surplus store and found useful, then he was all for lugging the damn thing across the country. This is why Sam could never have a dog. It wasn't practical. A lot of what Sam wanted wasn't practical. Christmas and birthdays, when they were remembered, never gave way to frivolous gift-giving. They were always tight for money, and they led lives ruled by whether or not something was essential to living. The Impala was the closest thing they had to a luxury item simply because it was a classic car, and it was _Dean's._

"Can't I just want something?" Sam asked quietly. "Can't that be a reason?"

John sighed. Thing is, he really did want to just give his sons shit simply because they wanted it. He wished, as painful as it would still be, that he still believed that Mary had only died in a house fire, and that he had forced them into this nomadic lifestyle. But there were things his sons didn't know, so this was the way it had to be, and this was the sort of parent he had to be. "It can," he allowed. "But just wanting something won't make it so. I still don't get why you want one so bad, but as much as I'd _like_ to"- _yeah, sure,_ Sam thought-"it's not going to happen, Sammy. Sorry."

Sam deflated, and John patted his shoulder and went back to his bedroom, probably to record the details of the last hunt in his journal.

Sam knew why he wanted a typewriter. He had two reasons:

His freshman year of high school, his English teacher had told him he was a good writer. That he had real talent. Sam knew he wasn't cut out for this hunting business, not in the way his father and brother were. But writing? Sounded fucking _glamorous_. To just sit back and let your idea flow through your fingertips and onto the paper, to create worlds with just the touch of the pads of your fingers against the keys. Yes, the _practical_ use for one would be to write papers for school (admissions essays, anyone?), but what really mattered was the feeling of seeing his writing on clean, white paper in a deep, black ink, like something professional. What was important was the feeling he'd get, deep down in his soul, of creating something.

Okay, this one was a little more embarrassing, but it was a real reason. Last year, Sam had gone to see _Rushmore,_ a movie about a kid named Max Fischer who goes to this private school, and he's involved in all these clubs and falls in love with a teacher there and gets kicked out of Rushmore- but! The biggest thing was that he wrote plays. And he wrote plays on a typewriter his mother had given him when he was kid. It was gift she'd given him for getting into Rushmore in the first place. She'd sent in a piece Max had written about the Watergate Scandal when he was just a kid, and that's how he'd gotten in. His mother died. But Sam had fallen in love with the idea. How romantic it was, to write on a sleek typewriter and just _create!_

That's what mattered to him. Creating. _Rushmore_ became his favorite movie the moment the credits began to roll. Dean hadn't gotten it. It wasn't really his kind of movie. Sam didn't exactly know what had drawn him to it in the first place, either, but he knew he loved it. He got it. Seems the creative types always have a dead parent.

Years later, when Sam and Dean settled into the bunker, Sam's wish for a typewriter came true when he found one sitting in one of the old Men of Letters bedrooms. And, surprise, he claimed both the typewriter and the room as his. But, much like how he hadn't decorated his room, made it feel like home the way his brother wanted him to, he didn't touch the typewriter. Seems he didn't know what to say. Besides- there was so much to do around the bunker-cataloguing, filing, sorting-and not to mention all the cases, big and small, that Sam and Dean had to take care of. There was no time for plays and short stories and novels to be written. Sam had realized this long ago, but now with the typewriter sitting on his desk taunting him, it sank in that he would never get to walk across the stage after the premiere of his play, roses being thrown at his feet, a bouquet of seasonal flowers handed to him by the leading lady; no praise from his peers. There would be no Sam Winchester Players. There would be no glory. There would be no Pulitzer Prize for Drama. He would never be a poet laureate. He would never have a New York Times bestseller. It's a sobering thought, to know you'll be forgotten. To be a writer is to be immortal. To be a hunter is to be expendable, just a flicker of light. And the cosmic play goes on.

Three years passed before Sam touched the typewriter. And the only reason he ever did was because he read a letter found in the Men of Letters archives and remembered a certain favorite movie.

Sam had come across a series of missives and dispatches from a unit of the MoL that was working on cataloguing creatures found in underwater climates, specifically oceanic ones. One of the letters seemed to be a part of a back-and-forth argument between a Frenchman and one of the American Men of Letters. The American was upset about the lack of progress- seems the Frenchman had gone to catalogue underwater monsters, but instead found himself falling in love with the sea anyway, and everything in it. It had taken several dispatches from the American before the Frenchman bothered to reply, in which he very politely told the American that he could shove his duty and his code up his ass, and that there was more to this life than being afraid of monsters, and that the Frenchman's duty in this life wasn't to be afraid, but to seek out the beauty of the natural world. Quite poetic. And he ended the letter like this:

 _When one man, for whatever reason, has the opportunity to lead an extraordinary life, he has no right to keep it to himself._

 _Signed,_

 _Jacques-Yves Cousteau_

Jacques-Yves Cousteau?

Wait.

Jacques-Yves Cousteau!

"He was a Man of Letters," Sam said under his breath. That was the quote Max Fischer found in _Rushmore_ in that book that led him to Rosemary Cross! Led him to fall in love with her! The quote that essentially kicked off the entire plot of the movie! And then, Sam thought _Holy shit! This is some sort of sign! Why else would that exact line be in here? That typewriter…_

This was how Sam Winchester would become a writer. To create. To finally realize his fleeting childhood dream. His status as a Legacy would not only lead him to continue the work of the Men of Letters, but to leave a Legacy of his own. As if in a trance, Sam bolted out of his chair in the library and ran for his bedroom. He sat down at his desk and pulled the cover off the typewriter. It was beautiful. Everything he ever imagined. Would he still be able to write stories even with his mother now back from the dead? What would he even write about? He figured, maybe, he should just start. Isn't that how the greats did it? So, he just started. And he was surprised with where he went.

 _This had been a really big mistake. When your friend is in trouble, in real danger, even, what right have you to be happy? To have fun? To smile and laugh and be glad that you're alive, when a person you care about could have all that ripped away from them?_

 _But what are you supposed to do when there's nothing you can do about your friend's situation, and suddenly Sheriff Donna Hanscum has Twister in her hands and a huge smile on her face? What are you supposed to do then, huh? Are you just supposed to tell her that you can't all play Twister because you know that at some point in the future things are going to get REALLY BAD in all caps, so why not just start the wallowing process ahead of time?_

 _Well, I'll tell you something: that's bullshit. Have you ever heard of the Cosmic Calendar? In the grand scheme of things, you're not even alive for half a second. In the whole history of the universe, you're just a blip. Not even a blip! Your time on Earth is equivalent to the mass of an atom divided by a googolplex. So, when Sheriff Donna Hanscum pulled out the Twister box, I was game. Because why the hell not?_

 _Alright, let me back up and set the scene. My brother, Dean, and I have some friends who live in this podunk town called Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Our friend, Jody, is the sheriff there, and she has two surrogate daughters, Claire and Alex. Jody lost her husband and son about seven years ago, Alex lost her family over a decade ago, and Claire's closest thing to a dad was the friend of mine who was in big trouble. At first, things between the three of them were bumpy. But, time has a way of working things out. They created their own family, and let me and my brother in. This was the epitome of the whole pick-your-own-family thing. Just short one member. So at that moment in time, the three of them and me and my brother and Sheriff Donna were all hanging out at Jody's house in Sioux Falls on a rainy night with nothing to do. So Twister? Sounded great. To me._

 _"_ _I'll play," I volunteered. "Who else is game?"_

 _The other four groaned. "I think it'd be more fun to have Donna run the spinner and watch Sam flail all over the mat," Claire said, bumping fists with Dean._

 _"_ _Why do we even have that?" Alex asked. "Not like we're exactly board game type of people."_

 _"_ _Well, lucky for you, this ain't a board game!" Donna said in that perky Minnesota accent of hers. "C'mon, it'll be fun!"_

 _"_ _I can't even remember_ _buying_ _Twister. In fact, I think I downright refused to buy it when Owen asked for it. Cuz I sure as hell wasn't going to play with him." Jody stood up and took the box from Donna and examined it. "I have no clue why I have this."_

 _"_ _Well, we have nothing better to do. We're just sitting around starin' at the idiot box, so I'm gonna play, even if it's just me and Sam. Y'all hear me?" Donna asked, smiling at the group. She took the box back from Jody and started setting up the game. She spread out the mat across the living room floor and placed the spinner next to it. I looked at Dean. He was watching the whole scene intently._

 _"_ _Ya know," he began, "I'll play if Jody plays."_

 _Jody snorted with laughter. "Alright, then Winchester. But I'll only play if Claire plays."_

 _Claire looked at Jody askance. "Are you kidding me? There's no way in hell I'm playing."_

 _"_ _Absolutely no way?" Jody asked. "You sure? Cuz if you don't play, I don't play, and if I don't play, you don't get to watch Dean embarrass himself."_

 _"_ _Hey!" Dean squeaked. "What makes you think I'm going to embarrass myself?"_

 _"_ _You know you will," Claire teased, then sighed. "Alright. Fine. I'll play. But only if Alex plays."_

 _Alex didn't seem to be bothered by the idea of this at all, actually. "Fine by me. But if someone knees me in the gut and I throw up funfetti cake all over the place, you'll know whose fault it is."_

 _"_ _Dean's," I said knowingly. "He started this whole chain, so blame automatically goes back to him."_

 _Dean threw up his hands. "Fine! So now that everybody's doing it, let's get going."_

 _It was…a disaster. Donna tried to play and spin the spinner at the same time, calling out where to move our body parts, which was fairly easy early on, but got…trickier. Donna was the first one out, needless to say._

 _"_ _Shoulda place bets on this," Dean grunted from his awkward position hovering over me. "My money was on Sam."_

 _"_ _Ha ha," I laughed sarcastically. "Like you're so flexible."_

 _"_ _Oh, you'd be surprised, Sammy."_

 _"_ _Ugh, Dean, SHUT UP!" Claire groaned. "That's frickin' gross!"_

 _"_ _Seconded!" Donna cried gleefully from her spot on the floor, and she smiled at me. Spun the spinner. "Alright. Left foot red."_

 _And so on and so forth. If you had told me at the beginning of the day that I'd be ending my rainy day playing Twister with a stomach full of cake, I'd have told you that you were nuts. Wasn't exactly an experience I'd had before. It was all so…normal. And normal SO wasn't our thing._

 _At one point during the game, when everyone was piled on top of each other, sweaty and pissed off, and Donna still the only one out, Dean finally gave. He'd had twisted himself so he was practically laying across the rest of us, and with the latest move, he finally collapsed. Take that, big bro._

 _"_ _Ugh. My back," he groaned, and even though I couldn't see him, I'd bet my left nut that his eyes were closed and he was settling in. Yeah, not gonna happen. Dean had basically flopped gracelessly across all our backs, and we were all struggling to support his fat ass._

 _"_ _Dean…" I wheezed, "You lost…get…_ _ **off**_ _…"_

 _Claire wasn't amused, and let out a soft 'ugh' from somewhere next to me. Alex was less patient. "Get. Your ass. OFF ME!"_

 _Jody wheezed out a breathless, amused little laugh. "It's okay, Alex, I'll just shoot him."_

 _I thought that was a joke, and just as I was about to jerk my brother off_ _all_ _our backs, I hear the clicking of metal, look to my right, and sure enough, Jody has a fucking gun in her hand._

 _"_ _Jody," I began, calm because I knew she would never in a million years shoot any of the people in this room, "is that a gun in your hand, or are you just happy to see me?"_

 _"_ _Wait- gun?" Dean craned his neck so he could see under him, and Jody smiled up at him with a huge grin on her face as Alex watched on, holding back laughter. "Holy shit. That_ _is_ _a fucking gun!" And Dean willingly rolled off our backs, and everyone started pealing with laughter._

 _"_ _Alright!" Donna called breathlessly, "Left hand yellow!"_

 _The remaining four of us groaned and shifted over. Dean let out a huge sigh, like he'd been over-exerted (fatass), and headed towards the kitchen, where we could all hear him open the fridge and pull out a beer, pop off the cap, and then head for the cake, of which he'd already had a gigantic slice. He returned a few minutes later with his goodies, sipping on microbrew and snacking on cake._

 _"_ _Alright, Jody! My money's on you!" Dean cheered._

 _"_ _C'mon, Alex!" Donna said, joining in._

 _"_ _Hey, you're the spinner," Claire whined. "You're supposed to be fair and impartial."_

 _"_ _This ain't Olympic figure skatin', girly-girl. If you're so sore about it, prove me wrong! Right hand blue."_

 _As it would turn out, this would be the turn that would undo us. We all twisted like pretzels and reached, grunting and laughing, when it all fell apart._

 _"_ _Oh, c'mon," Dean drawled. "None of you could stay up?"_

 _The four of us lay in a giggling heap. "Guess not!" I laughed. "Sorry, man, looks like neither of you is getting paid today!"_

 _"_ _Ugh. Fine."_

 _The night took a turn for the quiet after that. After the game had been put away and both Dean and Donna had gotten another piece of cake, we settled down in the living room to watch some movie on Netflix, which of course caused another scrap._

 _"_ _Dude! 'Who Framed Roger Rabbit?' is on here! We're watching that."_

 _"_ _No, we're not. We're watching 'E.T.'" Alex suggested._

 _"'_ _E.T.' always makes me cry, and I don't feel like cryin' tonight. We're watching 'Notting Hill.'"_

 _"_ _What, and bore the guys to tears? Maybe on a night where those two aren't here, Donna," Jody said. "Alright, here's what we'll do. Sam, it's your day, so you get to pick. Whatever you want. What'll it be?"_

 _I thought about it. I hadn't gotten to pick the movie in forever. I was usually fine watching whatever anyone else wanted to watch. Dean had changed his mind and was mouthing both 'The Shining' and 'Blazing Saddles' at me, Alex and Donna were watching me expectantly, and Claire seemed to have just given up. I bit my lip._

 _"_ _I wanna watch 'Shakespeare in Love,'" I said, and smiled the biggest shit-eating grin that I could at Dean, whose face drooped._

 _"_ _Are you kidding me? You wanna watch some…some chick-flick about some pansy writer falling for Gwyneth Paltrow?"_

 _I shrugged. "Yeah. I do. And Shakespeare isn't just some writer, he's one of the best writers of the English language, and dude, Gwyneth Paltrow is really good-looking. It'll satisfy what everybody wants. Besides, it won best picture."_

 _"_ _Yeah, and so did 'Chariots of Fire', and everybody knows Raiders should have won. What's your point?"_

 _"_ _My POINT is that Jody let me pick, and this is what I pick. So you're gonna watch it, or I'm gonna come over there and kick your ass."_

 _The girls 'oohed' at Dean, who sat back in his chair, pissed off. I smiled, smug. I'd won._

 _I had never seen the movie. I don't know if anybody in the room had, but actually, it seemed to go over…well. Two sheriffs, a former vampire, the daughter of an angelic vessel, and two lifelong hunters sat down together and watched 'Shakespeare in Love' and let themselves get swept up in it. Donna cried when Shakespeare and Viola had to part, never to see each other again._

 _And so did Dean._

 _"_ _Oh my god! You're crying!" Alex squealed, pointing at my brother, and then she and Claire started rolling with laughter as the credits ran. Dean swiped at his eyes, trying to compose himself._

 _"_ _Am not! I. Am NOT. Crying!"_

 _"_ _Yes you are!" We all chorused. It was all good-natured teasing, but Dean is sensitive about that sort of shit. He shouldn't be._

 _It was that time of night. The TV and lights were shut off, except for the ones in the kitchen, which cast out an eerie glow into the hallway. You could hear the fluorescent lights buzzing and the refrigerator humming. I could have sat in there all night, listening to the sounds of this Home. But Dean and I needed to head out and get back on the road in the morning, so bed, even if it was just Jody's couch, sounded like a good idea._

 _"_ _Thanks for tonight, Jody," I told her quietly before she headed off for bed. She smiled at me._

 _"_ _Of course, Sam. Good night."_

 _"_ _Good night."_

 _Dean and I were the last ones up. I found him leaving the guest bathroom, bath kit in hand and pajamas on. "I don't think I've had that much fun in a long time." Dean let out a little sigh, and it cracked at the end. I looked over at him, and even in the dark, I could make out the wistful expression on his face. Dean's eyes looked suspiciously shiny in the darkness of the hallway, and I don't think it was just because of the movie._

 _"_ _You okay, man?" I asked. His smirk didn't come off his face when he looked at me._

 _"_ _Course I am. Why?"_

 _"_ _Just…well, you kinda look like you're crying."_

 _Dean sniffed and wiped at his eyes. "Nah. Must be allergies or a cold or something."_

 _I knew that wasn't true, that he thought he was lying for my sake, but I wasn't gonna call BS on him. If that's what Dean needed to tell me, I'd let him. He didn't need any ribbing right now. "Oh. Well, feel better, then."_

 _That's how Dean knew I was onto him. But instead of just telling me, yes, yes, I was kinda crying, you got me, he said, "Sammy?"_

 _"_ _Yeah, Dean."_

 _I could see Dean's too-white teeth in the dark. The toothiest grin I'd seen on my brother in what felt like ages. "Happy birthday, Sammy."_

Sam sat back in his desk chair. That was all he had in him at the moment. It wasn't that great, he mused. Simply a retelling of his last birthday. Writing it had made him miss Cas, who was still MIA, and was a missing presence in Sam's story. Who would want to read this? He thought to himself. Dean _would_ read it, but then he'd be confused as to why, and Sam didn't want to explain. This had been stupid. This had been a waste of time. No one wants to read his stupid stories. He had more important things to do. He had to track down Kelly Kline. Had to get rid of Dagon. And where was Cas? And what the hell was Dean doing? So it looked like he was going to keep his greatness to himself.

Well.

Until Eileen visited.

There was a day between the time she'd accidentally killed one of the British Men of Letters and the day she left for Ireland. It had been a quiet day. Not a lot of talking. No music coming from Dean's room. Eileen sat with Sam in his room that afternoon, watching him sit at his desk and go over lore on Nephilim while she sat on his bed. She studied him very closely. Eileen knew Sam was a large man. He towered over her, and was twice as wide. But the way he was hunched over his work made him look small. She had noticed, too, that he almost never drew himself to full height, with his back perfectly straight and his chest pushed out. He was a gentle giant, anyone could see that in the way he held his body and walked and the way his face settled. He could be an imposing man, if he wanted to be. But he didn't want to be, and that's what struck her the most. That, along with other things. Those two deep dimples of his. His kind brown eyes. His sweet, wide smile. And he had the shiniest hair! She only wished she was able to hear his voice, but alas, she could only sense vibrations.

"I like this room," she said, not signing while he wasn't facing her. She'd promised to help him with his ASL vocab. "It's…neat."

Sam turned around fully in his chair so that he was completely facing her and she could read his lips and see his hands, read his body. He smiled, and while she couldn't hear it, he laughed. "Yeah, that's one word for it. Dean keeps bugging me to make it more…personalized, I guess. But this is my style. I like it this way."

Eileen raised her eyebrows. "Oh." She tried to look around him. "Is that a typewriter?"

Sam briefly cast a glance behind him, but then turned back. "Yeah. It is. I don't really use it though."

"It's decorative?"

"I guess."

"You have a decorative typewriter?"

Sam laughed again, a little harder this time. "Um. Well, I wrote something on it once. But it wasn't anything important." He smiled with embarrassment. "Wasn't very good, either, I'm afraid."

Eileen shrugged. "Never know if you don't show anybody. Same way you don't get better at a new language if you don't practice. You'll never know if it isn't any good unless you show somebody."

Sam shifted in his chair, still smiling a little. "What are you trying to say?" He enunciated clearly.

"Let me read what you wrote."

Sam was clearly skeptical. But, he reminded himself, if I really believe I have something great within me, I have no right to keep it to myself. So Sam opened the drawer on his desk and pulled out the neat, stapled pile of papers that told the story of his thirty-third birthday and forked them over to the girl sitting cross-legged on his bed.

Eileen took her time with it. She lingered over every word, using it to try to get a better sense of who exactly Sam was. Sam wanted to watch her while she read, watch her facial expressions as she reacted to it, but he didn't want to creep her out, so he pretended to go back to his research. About twenty or so minutes later, he felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned around, he saw Eileen standing there, papers in hand, smiling at him.

"I liked it," she told him. "I can hear their voices. And I'm deaf."

"You're just being nice," Sam laughed.

"You're just being modest," Eileen teased. "Why would I lie? I really liked it, Sam."

He raised his eyebrows. He wasn't quite believing what he was hearing. "Oh, yeah? What do you like about it?"

"I can tell how much you love them," she said. She didn't tell him how she wished she could be one of the people Sam loved that much. "It's a story about loving your family."

Sam had never thought of it in that way. He always thought it was just a silly little anecdote. He hadn't meant to put all that love in it. But, he decided, he was glad it was in there. It meant his little story had a Soul. "I'm glad you like it. You really mean it?" Eileen nodded. Sam took a deep breath. "Would you like to keep it? To take with you to Ireland?"

He winced. Shit. That was really pretentious, wasn't it? To just assume she'd liked it so much she'd want to keep it. He was already _that_ type of writer. But Eileen lit up. "Really? You'd let me keep it?"

Sam stared at her in awkward surprise for a moment before vigorously nodding his head. "Yes. Yes! Of course! If you want it."

"I do want it. It'll be like having a piece of you with me."

And that's all Sam wanted to hear. At that very moment, though he didn't know it at the time, wouldn't know it for a _very_ long time, Sam decided that if Eileen was the only person in the world who ended up liking his writing and wanted to read it, then that would be okay. He would gladly write for her. He would write her novels of every length and genre. He would write one-man plays to perform for her. He would write her poetry, rhyming or not, long and short, haikus and freeform, silly ones and serious ones. _Sonnets_. He would write her love letters. His entire body of work would be dedicated to her. But he didn't know all that yet, so neither did she.

Eileen left for her plane for Ireland the next morning, long before Dean was even awake. He needed the sleep, and Sam as glad to let him have it. He'd understand. Sam offered to give her a life, but she politely declined. Sam's story was tucked into her bag.

"At least let me walk you to your car," he asked.

"Of course." She smiled at him.

He didn't want her to leave yet, he thought to himself, as she packed up her bags into her car. But that was selfish. She needed this time away. She needed to clear her head. Eileen didn't deserve to live with guilt. "Ready to hit the road?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Sorry to leave so soon."

Sam shook his head. "It's okay. You need this. Take all the time you need. And, like you said, you're not exactly going to be alone." He nodded his head towards the car. "You've got me, Dean, Jody, Donna…and if you ever want to call, don't hesitate. Please."

Eileen, it seemed, couldn't stop smiling at him to save her life. "Alright. I'll talk to you soon, Sam."

"Make sure you tell me when you get there, okay? Like, to the airport and Ireland. Both. So I know you got there safe."

She laughed. "Of course." She bit her lip and took a deep breath as if gathering her courage, then placed her hands on Sam's shoulders and stood on her tip-toes so she could give him a kiss. On the mouth. But it was quick enough that Sam could ignore the meaning behind it if he wanted to.

But he didn't want to. He wanted to keep kissing her. But she needed to get going. And no matter how quick it was, he knew what it meant.

That night, after Eileen had left and Sam had shared a quiet drink with his brother, Sam sat in his room. Eileen had gotten to the airport safely. He had heaved a sigh of relief when he'd read her text. As he sat in his room, absent-mindedly watching _Malcolm in the Middle_ on Netflix, he started thinking maybe he should ask for Eileen's address in Ireland once she got there and got settled. Maybe he would write more for her on his typewriter and send it to her so she wouldn't just have one piece of them (him), but multiple pieces of them (him).

In fact, he thought, that's a great idea. _And I'm going to start right now._

(Like she was his muse.)

Sam got out of bed and sat at his desk once again, and once again pulled the cover off _his_ typewriter. He stared at the paper, then stared at the keys, then at the paper again. He allowed himself a small smile. He knew what he was going to write for her first.

 _Eileen,_

 _You are thousands of miles away right now, and I miss you…_

 ** _THE END_**

 **AN: Thanks for reading. If you feel so inclined, leave a review! Be on the lookout for chapter five of "Sins of the Saints, Grace of the Goons" within the week!**


End file.
